Crossing his knees comfortably, Thayer lighted the pipe he had been filling, and took a tentative puff or two.
"I don't know," he said dubiously. "He ought to, but I can't seem to discover the way to get on in this precious country of ours. Arlt is a musician to the tips of his fingers; I have yet to hear a pianist in the city to compare with him. And still, nobody manifests the least interest in him."
Bobby contemplated the tip of his own cigar, bending his brows and frowning as much from his optical angle as from his mental one.
"He lacks the two P's," he said slowly; "pull and personality."
Impatiently Thayer uncrossed his knees and crossed them in the reverse position.
"Do you mean that nothing else counts here?" he demanded.
"Precious little. A fellow has got to have good lungs for blowing his own horn, else he is drowned in the general chorus. That's the worst of music as a profession; personality is everything. You must be perfect or peculiar. The latter alternative is the greater help. If Arlt would grow a head of hair, or wear a dinner napkin instead of a necktie, it would improve his chances wonderfully."
"But, if the right people would take him up?" Thayer suggested.
"They won't; or, if they do, they'll drop him as a monkey drops a hot chestnut. Arlt plays like an artist; but he blushes, and he forgets to keep his cuffs in sight. He is as unworldly as he is conventional. Society doesn't care to fuss with him."
Thayer looked grave.